


a place to come back to

by Atalto



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Reunion, Crying, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season 7 Spoilers, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Shiro (Voltron) is a Mess, Shiro deserves hugs, Very Brief reference of suicidal thoughts, ambiguous ending, bc Adam, discussions of anxiety, fun stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 23:32:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15593226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atalto/pseuds/Atalto
Summary: Coming back to Earth isn’t quite was they thought it was going to be, but Shiro didn’t think it ever was.But he’s seeing ghosts, a face around the corridors, a tug in his chest to somewhere he doesn’t know.It hurts.(A request fic)





	a place to come back to

**Author's Note:**

> T-Minus 4 day’s until S7 y’all and I’m not okay.
> 
> This was a request fic, written for Manimatsu on Wattpad, who asked for a Teary Shadam reunion. That’s useful, since all my brain wants to write at the moment is crying Shiro getting comfort, yay!
> 
> Hope this is okay for y’all!!!

The first days back on Earth are a blur.

They aren't even allowed down onto the surface until the threat of the Galra was gone, an arduous task that lasts way too long for Shiro's liking. What started as a regular dogfight in a familiar solar system turned into a mad race against time to stop debris crashing through the atmosphere and destroying the Earth like a meteorite.

To be honest, it's stressful.

Shiro was never very good at sitting in the passenger seat.

Even once they got onto solid ground, it's a slog. Harsh screening is put in place to ensure they weren't threats - Shiro is shocked to see Iverson leading the interrogation, angered face somehow even more wrinkled than it was when he left all those years ago.

Finally, they are let out.

And it's pandemonium.

From the moment they step foot outside of the quarantine facility, every camera on Earth seemed to be trained on them. There are interviews, magazine shoots, paparazzi in sleek black cars that follow them from outside the Garrison's perimeter that harassed anyone going in or out for information. Shiro was horrified to discover they had even ended up in the gossip magazines that Lance and Pidge seemed to love, syrupy columns that speculated on events and relationships between the five, most of which were complete lies.

He has to get away.

Part of him wants to run. Run back out into the desert and find Keith's old shack, bolt the door and board the windows and hide in the loft. There, he would be away from any cameras, away from the curious looks of the cadets as he wandered around the Garrison like a ghost, away from the distrustful flares of unfamiliar professors.

Here, stuck in a sterile apartment of the Garrison's residential wing three days later, he knows he's trapped.

He feels like a caged bird, stripped of the open air of space he had become so used to. He hardly sees his team anymore; Keith spends most of his time in the simulators, happily breaking every record in some vain but understandable act of revenge, whilst Lance, Hunk and Pidge have taken up residence in the cadet cafeteria, claiming a table that the new recruits flock around to hear their (only slightly dramatised) stories every lunch and dinner.

Meanwhile, Shiro's heart yearns for home, but his head doesn't know where home is anymore.

He feels it sometimes at night, a tug or a pull in his chest that often feels like a warm pair of arms around his shoulders. They beckon him, call him from a place he can't locate with a soft tone, lull him into this security that just leaves him feeling more cold when they disappear again.

"Maybe we can get you a body pillow or something," Lance suggests one breakfast, much to Shiro's immense embarrassment, "do you have an anime husbando we can commission for you?"

"I think I'd rather not," Shiro admits with an awkward laugh, reaching up to scratch short hair with metal fingers, "I'm fine, honestly."

A table of glares, combined with Keith's signature raised eyebrow, tells him he's less than convincing.

"Maybe you need to get back in the game, y'know?" Hunk asks, and his heart sinks at the words, "like we're Earth's most legible bachelors right now - and bachelorette, sorry Pidge - so surely it's not gonna' be that hard to find you a date."

Lance immediately starts talking, some kind of list of every dude in the Garrison he knows that Shiro might be interested in, but Shiro's zoned out. There's someone on the other side of the room, standing dead in the doorway with a face like he's just seen a ghost.

Shiro knows this face.

He stands instantly, pushing the chair away with an ear-piercing scrape that grabs the attention of everyone in the room. It falls silent around him, every pair of eyes trained on him.

"Shiro?" Keith asks, voice like its swimming through gel, "you with us?"

Immediately, he blinks, looking down at the paladins' table as air reenters his lungs. They're all concerned, obviously, since they're familiar with his ticks and signals.

The figure in the doorway has gone.

"Sorry," he says quickly, shuffling back into his seat as a tentative murmur arose around them, "I- sorry."

A hand appears on his shoulder, warm and supportive. He knows it's Pidge's, but he can't bring himself to look.

Shiro stands again, this time more quietly as he picks up his food tray to place it in the cleaning chute. "I'm not hungry, I'll see you guys later for the press briefing?"

He leaves just in time to see them nod, and doesn't look back.

Part of him wants to go back to his apartment, curl up in that closet he knows he can fit inside and shut the door. Darkness is uncertain, but comforting when all he can focus on is rushed slamming of his heart and the shortness of breath in clamped lungs, and the sturdy walls of the closet have hidden and contained many a midnight panic attack. He can also make himself a cup of tea, move through the ritualistic actions of filling the kettle and diffusing the leaves like he did before Voltron, before Kerberos, when his only worries were numbers on a paper and the impressions of his higher-ups.

Instead, he finds himself at a different door.

It's not unfamiliar, as he runs his flesh and bone fingers over the number plaque like his brain screams he's done time and time before, but rather nostalgic. It feels right to return here, as if his body was moving on muscle memory, but also so subconsciously wrong, like returning to an old seat in a classroom after the seating plan had changed.

At one point in his life, this door was home, the threshold of safety, somewhere to leave his worries and enter relaxed.

Now, he doesn't know what it is.

He could return to his apartment right now, slide into the closet that was screaming his name, but the arms around his shoulders and the tug in his chest have been pulling him here, to this door, ever since he left for Kerberos.

Hesitantly, he raps on the door with metal knuckles, once, twice, before a familiar voice calls from within.

"Come in, its open."

True to the voice's word, the door is slightly ajar, like it had been closed in a rush, and Shiro pushes it open gently.

The first thing that hits him is the smell. It's heavy, of sandalwood and some other earthy, musky scent he can't place, like the body spray favoured by teenage boys who thought they were cool. He used to be like that, cool, aloof, attractive, but now he's a quivering, broken man in the doorway of a past life.

He steps in further, panelled floor creaking against heavy boots. It's dark, even more so once he shuts the door behind him, which is unusual since it's ten in the morning. He can see the outline of a window in the kitchen area, blacked out by heavy blinds like a solar eclipse, bathing the hallway in a faint silvery light.

He knows this place; if he were to turn left, he would come into a living area, a standard issue couch sitting opposite a flatscreen television that has a few broken pixels in the bottom right corner. Going straight on would come into the back of the kitchen, which was directly connected to the living room via a breakfast bar where a partition should be.

Going right would take him to a bedroom. He would find a desk where many a flight report was written and edited, a computer used for video call after video call, a bed where two men spent every night for four years held tightly in each other's arms.

He doesn't know which way to turn.

He decides to go left; going straight into the kitchen was just weird, and he doesn't think he can handle the bedroom just yet.

Surprisingly, it hasn't changed, despite everyone telling him he'd been gone for the best part of three years. The walls are still grey and white, the couch is still orange, the breakfast bar is still a harsh clean marble. There's pictures in sleek, modern frames hanging around the room that he can't make out, eyes still adjusting to the darkness.

The television has changed, but he's not surprised; it's bigger now, and it's the only source of light in the room. It seems to be playing some news reel, and Shiro hardly recognises his own face when the now familiar footage of their first media appearance flashes before his eyes.

Before he can unscramble what the anchor is saying, the screen flicks off, and that's when he realises there's someone sat on the couch.

"I didn't think you were going to come here," the man starts, and there's a venom in his voice that makes Shiro's feet turn to lead, freezing him in place, "and yet, here you are."

It's at that point where the man turns, tossing one arm over the back of the couch to look up at him. Despite the darkness, Shiro can see tear tracks, fresh and raw.

"Adam, I-" he starts, but the rest of the sentence doesn't come, dying in his throat as he gapes for air. Adam has changed, unlike the room; he's older now, previously soft, welcoming face hardened by years of heartbreak and forced acceptance. Warm eyes have solidified to a muddy bleakness behind taped and scratched glasses, and unruly hair shoots in every direction, as if the man in question had given up with physical appearance that morning.

He's just as beautiful as the day Shiro left.

"Took you long enough," Adam finally forces out, and Shiro can hear the roughness in his voice, "I thought you were never coming back."

"So did I," Shiro admits with a laugh, abrasive against the dryness of his throat - it's silent, atmosphere heavy and viscous between them, "I- God, I- I just-"

"You don't have to explain," Adam interrupts with a wry laugh as he pushes himself to his feet, "I used to think I knew you well enough to understand."

Shiro frowns. "Don't you anymore?"

Before him, Adam shrugs. "You're a different man now."

Part of Shiro wants to scream that it's true. He _is_ different now, a soul in a fake body that's never experienced love, safety, or yearning. He _died, damn it_ , defied the one constant in the universe to come back to here, to come back to _Adam_ , and yet, it's not the same.

"Space does that to you," is what he says instead, unconsciously cradling the altean arm near his chest, "It's overrated, in that regard."

Adam steps around the couch, and Shiro tenses, blurred memories and emotions of their last, final fight flooding back through his veins like a corrosive, burning static. He's too on guard for this, on edge like he has been for the past year, keyed up like a jack-in-the-box or a confused dog who has known only violence.

Violence is all this body knows, after all.

Instead, there's a hand on his bicep, hesitant and uncertain, and he flicks his head around to see Adam an arm's length away, face determined but unable to hide his eyes.

Is he- _scared_?

"I've heard the stories," he explains before Shiro can open his mouth to ask, "I've been told the rumours; they said you were a gladiator?"

The word, the name Shiro knows, avoids Adam's lips, but it clouds the room like smoke.

"Not anymore," Shiro replies, and Adam takes a step forward, "not again."

Another hand reaches across his chest, and he looks up to see invitation written across Adam's eyes. Slowly, Shiro offers the prosthetic, letting cold fingers rest in Adam's warm ones.  
He opens his mouth to speak, but whatever words were there must have died on his tongue, since he closes it a second later.

Instead, he shuffles forwards again, playing with the metal digits and slotting them into his hand. Somehow, they still fit.

"Must've been harsh," he whispers, bring the hand up to rest on his chest, "I- I can't-"

"I'm not expecting you to understand," Shiro says with a shake of his head, "I hardly do myself."

Adam just hums, taking another step forwards. They're practically shoulder to shoulder at this point, and the proximity isn't helping with Shiro's heart rate.

"I missed you."

The words slip past his lips unbidden, and he clamps his mouth shut as Adam's head snaps up. There's a glistening in his eyes, and Shiro can't bring himself to watch the man he loved cry over him one last time.

"How can you say that?" He hears Adam hiss, but the anger, strangely, isn't directed at him, "after all I've done, all I said to you, all the faith I lost in you, you still missed me?"

Shiro nods, eyes still fixed on the far wall. "I never stopped," he admits, and the words physically hurt after being bottled up since the arena, "on bad nights, I'd sit in my cell and scream your name like a baby out of fear, isn't that _stupid?"_  
He cuts himself off with a harsh, barking laugh, but Adam doesn't seem to find it funny.

At some point, he had started crying, but he doesn't know when. All he knows is that his face is wet, and he can't see properly, and his resolve is breaking before him. He knows his hands are trembling, even the metal one, shaking from pure force of will as he feels rogue tears slide over his chin.

"Takashi," a voice whispers, and suddenly all he can see is Adam, "can I-?"

The question doesn't need to be finished as Shiro jerkily nods, and allows himself to be manhandled into a tight, protective hold. He doesn't hug back, can't trust his arms to secure around Adam's waist, and he can feel his knees giving out as he hides his face in Adam's neck and sobs.

He hasn't cried like this in years. If he were to cry in the arena, even in the 'safety' of his cell, he was taken out and beaten before the prisoners.

(He only did it once.)

So to suddenly be given the opportunity to cry, coaxed into it by a gentle voice mumbling nothings in his ear in time with the gentle stroking of his back, was jarring.

He knows Adam is crying too, since he can feel a wetness in his hair from where tears fell off cheeks, but neither of them say anything of it.

Eventually, his sobs even out, falling back into hiccups as air flows through his lungs once again. He feels sick, childishly sick, but he swallows against the lump in his throat and allows his eyes to flutter shut.

"You're safe now," he hears Adam murmur, and that's when he realises his thoughts had slipped out in broken, cut words without his consent, "I promise, you're home, you're safe, I'm sorry."

"For what?" Shiro asks, disgusted by how shredded his voice is.

Adam shrugs again. "Everything. I shouldn't have left you."

"I shouldn't have gone," Shiro replies, as the idea of blame sits uncomfortably in his chest, "I should have listened, I-"

He stops, since they both know hindsight is twenty-twenty.

"I'm better now," he continues, shaking his right arm as if that aided his explanation in any way, "I'm not- I'm not ill."

Against him, Adam laughs harshly. "Swings and roundabouts," he says, "I don't know what I prefer."

Shiro doesn't know either. Sure, he now has a full life ahead of him, but a life that will be haunted by demons he knows he can't escape.

Part of him wishes he was dead.

"Come on," Adam says, and suddenly Shiro is being dragged into the couch. The mere idea of being back here, where he shouldn't be after him and Adam parted ways, is like rocks in his gut, but he has little choice. His body and mind ache too much to protest, happy to be moved and placed and located.

He's lain on the couch as if it were a bed, Adam helping him swing his legs up onto it. It's slightly too small for him to stretch out on, not like he used to be able to when him and Adam first moved in together, but it's enough. Adam kneels next to him on the floor, reaching up with one hand to slowly comb through Shiro's limp hair, and frowns as Shiro stutters out another sigh.

"I'm glad you're back," he muses, and Shiro looks up at him to see a pensive frown etched on his face, "it- it felt weird without you."  
He breathes a wry laugh, grimacing at a thought. "I'll still never forgive myself for not coming to your launch. I should've been there, even if I did hate you at the time."

"I hated you too," Shiro replies quietly, "still do, actually."

Adam laughs properly at that. "I know we won't be the same for a while, maybe ever," he starts, and Shiro raises an eyebrow since he knows what's coming, "we'll need some time, but maybe, someday, we could try again?"

"I'd need time," Shiro confirms, and it's true - his head is spinning with the sudden onslaught of emotions and information within the last hour, "and you'd have to be okay with me constantly being withheld by Voltron-"

"It's your first priority, I know-"

"But I would like to try again," Shiro finishes, looking down at where their hands are still joined, familiar caramel intertwined with gunmetal grey, "only if you didn't mind worrying about me for a whole host of new reasons."

They both know what he means, as the knowledge of his anxiety, his PTSD, his blackest moods goes unsaid.

"Takashi, you could be fit as a fiddle and I'd still worry about you," Adam jokes, tone and phrase channeling his Mum in a way that made Shiro grin from nostalgia. It's the first genuine, happy smile Shiro has seen on the other man's face all day, "but taking it slow? I can do that."

A thumb runs over Shiro's knuckles, and for the first time in months, he feels safe.

**Author's Note:**

> (Yes, I know this is similar to The Last Blues, just with a Shadam skin, leave me be :’D)
> 
> Hope y’all enjoyed this!


End file.
